Synchronization
by MyBoswell
Summary: Holmes doesn't have the funds to start his work, so he joins the army. He never expected to meet military doctor John Watson. Slash. H/W
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I apologize for any historical inaccuracy in here. I did some research on this, but only what I could find online.

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><p><strong>Synchronization<strong>

**Chapter 1**

Four years.

Sherlock eyed the contract presented to him with disdain. Was he truly considering signing the thing?

He had not been terribly surprised when approached at the bar by a recruiting sergeant, as they often preyed on the men they believed had enough reason to want to drink their problems away. He had been approached several times himself, both in disguise and out of, but most often, he merely sent them away. This one had been irritatingly persistent, and, too frustrated to care anymore, he reluctantly allowed the man to take up the seat next to him.

He'd begun by simply ignoring the man, hoping he would eventually take the hint and find some other poor sod who would sign his life away. Unfortunately, that had not been the case.

"I've no interest in spending this lifetime following orders," Holmes had finally stated, cutting the man of midsentence.

There was a slightly wry touch to the sergeants smile, and he nodded his head in understanding. "I understand. However, many things have changed in Her Majesty's army. Tell me, how is your wallet, sir?"

"My finances are hardly your business," the response was cool, though with an undercurrent of ice that made the man raise his hands in offer of piece.

"Of course, of course." He opened his satchel, flipping through papers until he removed the one he was looking for, setting it before Holmes. "I simply wish to bring some details to your attention. You see, I have here a contract for four years, only four, sir. With it comes a starting pay of a shilling and two pence per day."

Holmes snorted, taking his mug and sipping it. "I could make twice as much laying bricks, if not more."

"Ah, but your days rations are free, and neither will you have to pay for your shelter."

These were the words that brought the aspiring detective to a pause, his eyes flickering to the man. He had few worldly possessions, and those he did have, Mycroft had once offered to hold for him whilst he was attending his University. Perhaps the offer still stood. He'd no family to care for, and if he was not paying for a roof over his head, nor food, he could save a hefty sum of money, even with the meager pay.

Four years.

Four years until he could play the violin, or run his experiments. Four years of pain-staking boredom and routine, following orders. But the amount he could save in that time, he could really, truly start his business, without the help that his brother now refused to give. It was a shorter time, he believed, than he'd be able to manage whilst there in London.

Sharp grey eyes flickered to the sergeant, who offered him a pen.

Was it really worth it? Risking his life in this war, the boredom he knew he'd face, all to become the world's first private consulting detective?

Sherlock took the pen and signed his name.


	2. Chapter 2

The medical examination was tedious and invasive. Holmes pursed his lips, arms held out as the doctor looked him over, commenting on his weight (it had been a while since he'd had anything proper to eat anyway) and the healing puncture wounds in his arms. The consistent use of drugs probably should have disqualified him on its own, but it was clear that the military was beginning to care less and less about what shape their soldiers were in when they came in. It was difficult to keep up high standards when the war was raging on.

After going through the examination and being approved, he was sent to have his measurements taken. Holmes bit back whatever snide remarks brewed up with his irritation, pushing on through the necessary arrangement until he was finally allowed to go home for the day. He had four days to back out of his enlistment if he so chose to. Instead, he used the time to make his own arrangement.

When he told Mycroft of his plans, he was pleased by brief look of utter shock he caught on the elder's face. "The military? Really Sherlock, that seems a mite… drastic, don't you think? Honestly, you and your tantrums-"

"It is not a tantrum, brother." Holmes sipped his tea, lifting an eyebrow. "If you will not loan me the money I need to start my work, then I will gain it through my own means."

"By getting yourself shot?" Mycroft released a soft snort. "Honestly, I could easily acquire you a position here; the pay is infinitely better and-"

"And get myself tangled up in the government? Ha!" Standing, the younger of the two set his cup aside. "The moment I start using my mind as you do, they will decide I simply cannot leave. No, Mycroft, I will stay true to my decision." He turned on his heel and started out the door, pausing only long enough to glance back and ask, "My belongings… I can trust you to hold them for me until I return?"

"If you return," Mycroft corrected, and for a moment, Holmes was almost sure he spotted a glimmer of true concern in his eyes. He lifted an eyebrow and the older sighed, waving a hand. "Yes, yes. I'm sure I can find a place for it."

Nodding his head, Sherlock took a step out the door before he was stopped.

"Sherlock."

Looking back again, he bit back a laugh, seeing his brother putting no small amount of effort into standing from his seat. "Please, do not strain yourself on my account."

Mycroft sent him a wry look before approaching him. He looked his younger brother over and nodded his head to himself, as if coming to a decision. A large hand came to rest on Sherlock's shoulder and he looked up warily.

"Take care of yourself, Sherlock."

"I…" he blinked slowly and nodded his head. "I will."

They parted awkwardly, neither accustomed to the warm interactions between most brothers. Holmes left quickly, heading to his tiny flat. He had to pack up his belongings before he left for training, knowing he would not have time afterward.

Soon, he would go to war.


End file.
